Free River Deep by Priscilla Masters Page B

looked longer, younger, different. “Once Mrs Haddonfield had taken a peep at our corpse and said it wasn’t her husband she was whisked away by the efficient Detective Inspector Randall.” He smiled lazily. “And my brief acquaintance with the lady was at an end. I’ve never known a case like it. To believe, twice, that you have the right man only to have the wife swear otherwise. Two women in the mortuary in as many days. Not good for a poor old pathologist like myself.” Whatever he said, he didn’t look too troubled.
    She drank her wine thoughtfully and set it down on a cork coaster on the coffee table. “So Alex still has a missing person as well as an unidentified corpse.”
    Mark savoured his mouthful of wine then smirked. “As well as a case of assault.”
    “What?”
    “I heard through one of the junior officers on the case that Mrs Humphreys broke her husband’s nose right outside Monkmoor cop shop while he was placed nicely in front of the CCTV camera. It was almost rehearsed.”
    She threw her head back and laughed. “I don’t believe it. And is the errant husband going to press charges?”
    “Well,” Sullivan said with a sharp twinkle in his eye. “I don’t think he would have done but in spite of all the first aid the officers could administer, the offending protuberance swelled up considerably and his looks were apparently much diminished. I don’t rate his chances with Sheelagh any more.”
    “What you mean is,” she said wickedly, “that Sheelagh the Sheila didn’t find him quite so attractive.”
    “Quite,” Sullivan said. “What a very adventurous life some men lead. Makes me feel quite …” And suddenly the tired look was back, haunting him. He fell silent. Deeply silent and she watched him thoughtfully as the torpor sunk his eyes. He set his glass down on the other side of the table as though he was too tired even to hold it.
    “Mark,” she began tentatively. “You do understand, don’t you. We can’t hold an inquest until I know who he is.”
    “I think I’d come round to that conclusion myself.” He was sitting and staring at the ruby wine glass. She’d switched on the standard lamps around the room so the light was soft and flattering. But it made his face look even more hollow.
    “What I find hard to believe is that no one’s come forward to identify our John Doe. He didn’t look the sort of man who would not be missed. He was well-dressed and relatively young. He didn’t look like a down-and-out but someone with a job – with a family. People like that don’t just drop through the black holes of society. Men like that simply don’t just go missing, Mark. And yet. His pockets were empty. There was nothing to tell who he was. No ID. No mobile phone. No wallet. The police have scoured the house for anything that might tell them who he is. I know forensic evidence will have been lost in the floods but this is bizarre. What was he
doing
there? Where’s the murder weapon?” She wriggled her feet again. “It’s as though part of the puzzle is not knowing who our corpse is. Once we know his name we’ll know his killer’s name.” She drank some more of the wine. “Or am I being fanciful?”
    He grinned back at her. “Just a bit.”
    “Oh – it’s such a tantalising puzzle.”
    Mark was eyeing her very carefully, glasses back on. “If you’re so curious to know where the investigation’s got to now you’ll have to talk back to Alex Randall. I’ve no idea how his case is progressing. Maybe he’s found out something more.”
    “Right.”
    They chatted idly like old friends until a little past eleven. Both being doctors they found plenty of subjects they were both interested in and more besides. But of his family Mark Sullivan remained silent and she did not probe. Neither did he mention Martin or her children even though the strains of Abba could be heard bouncing down from the top floor and Sam’s heavy footprints went twice up and down the stairs.